


Three Sheets to the Wind

by OtherWorldsIveLivedIn



Category: Carry On Series - Rainbow Rowell, Simon Snow & Related Fandoms
Genre: Banter, British Slang, Crack-adjacent, Domestic, Extensive mentions of being drunk, Eyebrow dance of seduction, Flirting, Fluff, Fluff and Humor, Getting drunk with your partner, Healthy Relationships, Humour, Jokes, Kissing, M/M, Play Fighting, Silly moments, Slice of Life, being silly together, but in a British way, does this count as fluff?, drunk and in love, eyebrow appreciation, eyebrow dancing, feel good fic, fuck it, happy snowbaz, like 47 of them, playful, specifically Baz’s sexy eyebrow raise
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-03-13
Updated: 2021-03-13
Packaged: 2021-03-21 07:47:55
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,608
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/30018483
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/OtherWorldsIveLivedIn/pseuds/OtherWorldsIveLivedIn
Summary: Simon and Baz have had a few too many bevvies and are off their face. Trashed. Utterly wellied. And, for some reason, Baz’s eyebrow looks down right good enough to lick.This fic is a love letter to eyebrows (Baz’s, specifically)—with as many British ways of saying “I’m drunk” as I could wrangle! (There’s 47, if we include the summary, just for the record 😂)
Relationships: Tyrannus Basilton "Baz" Pitch & Simon Snow, Tyrannus Basilton "Baz" Pitch/Simon Snow
Comments: 24
Kudos: 80





	Three Sheets to the Wind

**Author's Note:**

  * For [RooBadley](https://archiveofourown.org/users/RooBadley/gifts), [giishu](https://archiveofourown.org/users/giishu/gifts), [NineMagicks](https://archiveofourown.org/users/NineMagicks/gifts).
  * Inspired by [I Meant It, You'll See](https://archiveofourown.org/works/29860206) by [OtherWorldsIveLivedIn](https://archiveofourown.org/users/OtherWorldsIveLivedIn/pseuds/OtherWorldsIveLivedIn). 



> For my lovely friends [RooBadley](https://archiveofourown.org/users/RooBadley/pseuds/RooBadley)—who gaslighted me into a sequel in the most pleasant possible way 😏, and [Giishu](https://archiveofourown.org/users/giishu/profile)—because our DMs about the Cadbury’s advert sparked this idea off in my noggin’ 🥳  
> I’ve taken my line from [I Meant It, You’ll See](https://archiveofourown.org/works/29860206/chapters/73476348) and ran with it, and I hope you enjoy ❤️
> 
> And also for the wonderful [Ninemagicks](https://archiveofourown.org/users/NineMagicks/pseuds/NineMagicks), whom I adore, because I know you love a drunken phrase just as much as I do ❤️
> 
> Apologies in advance for any slang you might not understand, just roll with it… I’m pretty sure Simon doesn’t have a clue what he’s on about either.
> 
> Cadbury’s advert with the eyebrow dancing, just incase you’ve never seen it 😍:  
> [ https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=g0uWBog2Oi8](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=g0uWBog2Oi8)
> 
> And finally thank you to [sconelover](https://archiveofourown.org/users/sconelover) for beta’ing and being an all round great friend ❤️

** Simon**

I think Baz and I are absolutely wankered.

No, let me rephrase that. Baz and I are _definitely,_ absolutely wankered.

I don’t know why we decided to get mortal in the flat at 3pm on a Saturday, but here we are.

We did discuss going out on the lash, but Baz bought home fancy tonic last week from Waitrose and Fiona sent over a few expensive bottles of gin from Prague, and, well, one glass led to another… which led to at least five more. And a round of pizza from Dominoes. Oh and the chicken wings. Can’t forget those. Tasty little buggers they are, even if you only get one strip of meat and a whole load of bone to gnaw on. And the _sauce_ they give you, _Christ..._

Wait. Where was I…

Ah, yes. The fact that we’re sloshed.

We’re not totally legless—I can still walk to the toilet for instance. Which is where I am right now, having that awful moment when you meet your own eye in the mirror over the bathroom sink and become painfully aware that you’re off your pickle.

I splash some water on my face—and therefore down my top—and I think that helps. I’m certainly not seeing double anymore, at least.

I hobble back over to Baz, swaying slightly in a non-existent alcoholic breeze. He’s humming to himself over the top of the TV, swishing his head back and forth. I consider offering to get us another round from the fridge but I think better of it; we’ve probably had enough lubrication to be honest, and I don’t fancy being totally carparked before 5pm.

As I plonk myself down on the sofa I realise that I’ve got tissue stuck to my foot—crammed right in between my toes as well. There’s a stream of it following behind me all the way from the bathroom and I didn’t even notice.

Yeah, I’m still solidly twatted then.

Baz starts laughing as I pry the tissue from its wedge. It’s a loud, guffawing snort, followed by a throaty snicker. He always laughs like this when he’s positively steaming. (Penny recorded him the once. He wouldn’t talk to her for a entire week afterwards because he was so embarrassed—vain git.)

I grin at him now, though—Baz has royally fallen from grace, but it doesn’t matter how shitfaced he is, I’ll always find a messy Baz bloody beautiful. I tear off a length of the tissue and reach over to drape it around his head, tucking the ends into his bun, joining in with his laughter, mine just as loud and wasted.

He lifts his chin regally and waves his hand like a monarch, as if to show off having just been crowned the King of Loo Roll. He must be completely out of his tree to be alright with floor tissue in his hair.

“Behold, the Master of Charmin,” I mock him.

“It’s ‘His Highness,’ you great pillock,” Baz corrects. Can’t help himself, even when he’s three sheets to the wind.

He laughs again—at his own joke, I think—before trying to take a handful of Walkers, but Baz forgets to control his strength when he’s smashed, and he splits the bag in half—crumbs spill all over his lap and onto the floor.

Look at him, can’t even eat his crisps properly he’s so spannered. I love him. Every inch of this befuddled man slumped over right next to me. Even the sweat patches he’s got growing under his armpits. (Although that’s probably the beer goggles talking.) (Or gin goggles, I guess.)

“Simon,” Baz says seriously, brow furrowing as he stares at his lap in confusion. “I think I might be inebriated.” He looks ridiculous with his toilet crown; and that, combined with the poshness of his voice brings me to tears from laughing.

“Don’t laugh at me. That gin has gone straight to my head.”

I grin at him anyway—he’s pissed as a fart and he’s still so lovely.

He raises his eyebrow at me and tries to look menacing, but he’s too far in his cups to get it right.

“That’s the wrong eyebrow.”

“What?”

“It’s the wrong eyebrow you’re lifting.”

“No it’s not.”

“Yeah, it is. Usually you do your left. You’re lifting your right.”

It’s quiet for beat. Baz drops his eyebrow. Then raises it again. Still the right.

“No, I’m not.” He sounds firm, and I think he genuinely believes it. Flipping heck, just how sozzled is he?

“You are!”

“No.” He raises it higher, as if to demonstrate to me even more that it’s his left. _It’s not._

“You’re cucumbered mate, you don’t even know which eyebrow you’re lifting!” I jimmy my phone out of my back pocket and lift it up. “Here, look.”

I lean in to take a picture of him. Baz faffs with the toilet roll crown on his head, as if he’s getting himself nice and pretty for the photo. He knocks the whole thing off but I don’t have the heart to tell him; and anyway, he seems too trolleyed to notice. I snap the shot and turn the screen around to show him, smug as anything.

“See,” he says, “left eyebrow.”

_What?_

I turn the phone back towards me to have another look. I give my screen the good ol’ squint, just to make sure; I’m still absolutely bladdered myself, so he could be right.

He’s not.

“No,” I tell him. “The photo’s just been flipped!”

He scoffs at me and eats some of the crushed crisps from his lap. “You’re extensively rat-arsed, Snow,” he says through a mouthful, “What would you know?”

“I’m not wrecked enough to not know my bloody left from my right. Unlike _you.”_

Baz’s head snaps up to me then. He looks murderous for a second but the movement must have been too quick for his mullered-brain because he squeezes his eyes shut tightly once before levelling fierce eye contact my way.

Slowly, as if to monumentally emphasise his point, his eyebrow crawls up his forehead.

It’s still the right one.

He’s completely off his wagon.

I launch myself across the sofa and give it a good long lick. “See! Right!”

Baz stares at me in shock for a long second before sputtering out “Gross, Snow” and trying to push me off him.

We wrestle a bit, but I manage to pin him down. He lifts his eyebrow again—the other one, this time. The correct one. The one that’s haunted the corners of my vision since we were eleven years old.

“There! That’s your left.”

“No. It’s the same,” he insists, but I can tell he’s teasing me this time, trying to rile me up. Doesn’t matter how blotto he gets, Baz is still Baz.

I lean forward in an attempt to lick this one too, but Baz is too fast for me this time and he drops it before I manage.

“Oi,” I chuckle at him.

Baz smirks and raises the other, but the second I tilt forward to finally give him a good licking, he switches them over at lightning speed.

After that he doesn’t stop; left, right, left, right, faster and faster and faster. After a few rounds he gets a bit more brave and picks up different rhythms: left, right, left, left, right; they’re Mexican Waving sometimes right across his forehead.

I’m laughing my arse off as he carries out a full on dance routine with nothing more than his arched brows to the music from the adverts on the telly.

I have no idea how he’s keeping a straight face. I’m in pieces, and I think I would be even if I hadn’t been stewing in gin.

I think I’ve picked up his current rhythm though, and I’m pished enough that I’m ready to risk it all.

Right, left, right, right, left… three, two, one...

I dart forward to finally give his left eyebrow a lick and Baz reacts on impulse, moving his face so that my chin catches him right in the eyeball.

“Fuck, Snow!”

“Shit! Sorry, Baz.” I feel bad for laughing but then I realise he’s laughing, too. Another snort, more snickering. He’s gorgeous. And he’s mine.

I drop a kiss on his lips for that, and then I—very gently—lean in to kiss his left eyeball in apology, too. I hear crunching underneath me and I lean back to scoop some crisps from his lap into my mouth.

“We’d better clean up these crumbs, Baz,” I say. He’ll be furious if they’ve been crushed into the cushions once he sobers up.

“Can’t you do it, Snow? I’m palintoshed.”

“You’re what mate?” I turn to him, completely flummoxed. “Did you just make that word up?”

“No.”

“You’re drunk as a skunk mate, I think you just invented a new word.”

Blimey, he’s still extraordinary, even when he’s off his tit.

“I didn’t invent it, Snow. It’s a perfectly valid way of describing one’s intoxication levels.”

I study him then, he rocks back and forth a little, blinking his eyes a little blearily. His left one has a rim of red around it, still sore from where I accidentally clobbered him. Somehow there’re crisp crumbs in his hair, and smushed along his left cheek.

He smiles at me, it’s wide and squiffy and adorable. I watch as a few of the crumbs tumble from his face into his lap.

Fuck, I love him. And I tell him so.

“I love you, too,” he says, rubbing at his red-rimmed eye, “even if you are a nightmare when you’re thoroughly plastered.”

**Author's Note:**

> Baz did not, in fact, invent the word palintoshed. But there was a big debate in the UK a few years ago over whether it’s even real. I like it though, so it can stay.
> 
> There are MANY words/phrases that I wanted to use (officially Google tells me the UK has 3,000 🤣), but Snowbaz just weren’t the right level of drunk for them; and that makes me sad, so here are a few of my fave leftovers:
> 
> Paralytic  
> Laggin’  
> Merry  
> Half-cut  
> Slaughtered  
> Annihilated  
> Arseholed  
> Battered  
> Crapulent  
> Twisted  
> And ganted
> 
> Also, please comment with your favourite drunk phrases/words below—especially if they’re from a different country or are in a different language! I’d love to hear them 😍
> 
> You can find me on tumblr here: [OtherWorldsIveLivedIn](https://www.tumblr.com/blog/otherworldsivelivedin) 🥰


End file.
